Vive Ut Libra
by CondescensionJar
Summary: Life is a balancing act and Quinn Fabray is about to learn just how difficult it is to maintain equilibrium when the scales refuse to cooperate. After living as a girl for fourteen years, he's ready to take his life into his own hands and step into a new environment, but what happens if that isn't the end of his troubles?
1. Chapter 1

_Notes: This is an Alternate Universe (AU) fanfiction. The point of divergence is the reasoning behind Quinn's decision to leave her identity of 'Lucy' behind and transfer schools, drastically altering her physical appearance in the process. In Glee-Canon, she gets a nose-job and goes to cheerleading camp. In this story, well, she does none of that. I suppose you could say that the point of divergence is much earlier, beginning with Judy and Russell Fabray being rather more liberal than their canon-counterparts, but in terms of decisions made by characters, we'll go with changing schools. Characters from canon other than Quinn will appear. Note also that my grasp of canon ends about halfway through season three, although due to the AU nature of this work, that shouldn't be an issue._

Chapter 1

"Quinn, darling, it's time to wake up! You don't want to be late for move in, do you?"

You smile. Your mother, bless her soul, didn't even stutter over the new name. Your sister still resolutely refers to you as "Lucy" although she's grudgingly had to drop the "Caboosey" part of that unfortunate moniker. Jogging is painful, but not nearly as bad as anorexia, and the abs are just a nice little bonus.

You're out of bed quickly (for once) and have your teeth brushed, hair combed, contact lenses in, clothing on, and breakfast eaten in no time flat. Your dad chuckles. "Someone's in a hurry to get to school," he says.

"It's the first day," you explain. "I have to scope out the good rooms. I read online that I should avoid the rooms with carpeting. Apparently they retain stains better or something."

He tuts. "Well, I want to finish the paper before I drive you over, so take your time there, tiger. Maybe we'll do fashionably late. Besides, carpet is nicer on the toes."

You groan.

Your sister scowls (Frannie never was a morning person) and snaps, "Freak, I'm trying to eat."

You ignore her. It's easy to do; you've had practice. You've spent the last six months ignoring cruel words from those around you and God knows how long before that ignoring yourself. You decide to drink some orange juice instead of responding, cool sugar instead of fiery retorts. It's something your therapist taught you, to balance hot feelings with cold, cold feelings with hot, and you're not unconvinced that she's a waste of your parents money. Still, it's something to do other than lashing out.

Breakfast is a tense sort of quiet. Your mother doesn't break it, but you can see her opening her mouth every once in a while, about to say something, before catching herself and closing it. You feel guiltily appreciative of that fact. You love your mother but you hate small talk and today, of all days, what is there to say? Yesterday, you were Lucy Fabray, and you hated yourself, but today you are Quinn, and how you feel about that remains to be seen.

Your father finally puts down his paper and glances at his watch. "Oh, is that the time? Why didn't anyone say anything? We're going to be late for L- Quinn's move in!"

You wouldn't have laughed at the joke even if he hadn't slipped. You make it a point not to encourage his sense of humor. Your mother, however, titters obligingly and walks you to the door. She wants to hug you, you can tell, and part of you feels bad that she doesn't feel like she can. You drop your bags and sigh before turning and delicately, awkwardly, putting your arms around her. She, apparently, didn't get the memo though, and engulfs you in arms, tears, and all of the words that she wanted to say during breakfast but held in.

It's a few awkward seconds before she catches herself and releases you, simultaneously pleased at the rare contact and guilty for having made you uncomfortable. She's teary, though, and you wonder, for the first time, if this is the right choice, if boarding school is really the answer to your problems.

Your father seems to know what you're thinking. Russell gently lets you know that "There's still time to back out, kiddo. We can move, find a new school for you. Your sister might squall a bit, but we're your family, that's what we do," and you've never loved him as much as you do in that moment.

You shake your head, though. "I'm fine, dad," you tell him. It's not true, not completely, and he knows that, but he nods. "This is something I have to do," you say, and he seems to know what you mean because he just grabs your suitcase and throws it in into the trunk.

The ride is quiet, and for the first time, you wish it wasn't. If things go well, you won't see your parents again until Thanksgiving, and you've never been away from home for that long. The imminent separation is claustrophobic and you find yourself wishing your father would give you one last scrap to hold on to, but he's quiet, and you're quiet, and your last moments with him, right up until he hands you your suitcase and (quietly) says, "Well, good luck, son," are quiet.

You are Quinn Fabray and today is your first day at Dalton Academy. You take a deep breath, make sure that your new dress shirt is tucked into the grey uniform slacks (thankful that your breasts aren't excessive because _fuck_, can you imagine having to wear a binder underneath your undershirt, dress shirt, _and_ blazer in the late summer heat?) and, pulling your single suitcase behind you, walk through the double doors of the school.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It takes you twelve minutes to unpack all of your things. Eight of those minutes go to ironing your extra dress shirts. You've always been a light packer but your male wardrobe isn't extensive by any stretch of the definition. You have two extra sets of the Dalton Academy uniform and the bare minimum of what constitutes casual dress for a twenty-first century teenaged boy. After putting the iron back in the top shelf of the hall closet where you found it, you spend the other twenty three minutes before your roommate arrives examining the room that the two of you will share.

The first word that springs to mind is that it's _nice_. Your family definitely got what they paid for with Dalton (and your father would never tell you, but you checked it out online; you know exactly how much they're paying.) You're not sure if the stories about the carpets are true or not, but it's polished hardwood beneath your feet and the walls are solid, painted in the school's greys and crimsons. The beds, too, are nicer than what you had at home: the blanket, though unnecessary, is soft and downy, and the pillows are firm, just the way you like them. You decide that something has to be done about the color scheme, though, school spirit is one thing, but this seems excessive. Even the curtains are exhibiting Dalton pride.

Your pyromaniacal musings on how exactly to rid yourself of the offending drapes are interrupted, though, by the arrival of your roommate. You hear the rattle of his key in the door and you rise from where you were sitting on the floor to greet him. He hasn't been told of your situation, you know - Dalton's administration was very keen to assure you that your privacy was of the utmost importance to them, no matter how you identified - and you're suddenly nervous. You slouch a little, pulling your chest in (not that you have any breasts to protrude, but still) and hope that you can deepen your voice enough for this to work.

This is a test, your first test of Dalton, and you know that no Algebra, no Chemistry, no History test is going to worry you as much as this one.

The door opens.

Your roommate has short black hair that he's slicked back. It frames a handsome, boyish face, and he's grinning. The smile elevates him from boy-next-door pretty to movie-star good looking and the fact that biology or not you're a straight man be damned, you catch yourself staring. You're suddenly conscious that you're never going to wear the Dalton uniform quite as well as this boy across from you is. He sticks a hand out and you pause for a second that you hope he doesn't notice before taking it in yours. His skin is rough, much rougher than yours and you wonder if that'll be the give-away. Maybe you should take up rock-climbing or something.

"Hi!" he says brightly, "I guess we're living together this year, then. I'm Blaine Anderson."

"Quinn," you reply as your inner-you exults the happy fact that he is _clearly_ a tenor. "Quinn Fabray."

"Cool," he says, before surveying the room. You've taken the clearly superior bed, the one by the window, and your bookbag is lying on it, school supplies strewn across the pillow.

"Er, sorry I took the good bed," you say lamely.

He looks surprised that you'd even offer. "No, it's fine!" he says, "You got here first. I'd have done the same."

Somehow, you doubt that, from what you've seen, Blaine is the perfect gentleman, but you let it slide anyway.

You watch quietly as Blaine unpacks his things. He's brought a lot, or, at least, a lot more than you did. You're still not sure what a normally stocked male wardrobe consists of, but you somehow doubt that Blaine's can be used as an example. You see far too many bow-ties for that to be the case, and a beret, and- is that a cummerbund? Well, it's better than sweatpants, you suppose.

He puts away the last of his things (honestly, who knew one man could own so many bow-ties?) and turns back to you. "I don't know how often we'll be out of uniform," he admits, "but I felt like it's better to be prepared."

You nod - what can you say? Your own closet is nearly empty, and your dresser has little more than socks and briefs. Hell, Blaine probably brought more shoes than you own shirts.

Unperturbed by your silence, he presses on. "So where're you from?" he asks genially. "I'm from Cridersville. I'm glad I'm here, though - Westerville's much nicer than home. Bigger."

"Cridersville?" you ask, surprised.

"That's the one. Why?"

You shrug. "I'm from Lima. We're pretty close. I guess I didn't expect that."

"Oh hey that's awesome! I know what you mean, though. I think there's a guy down the hall who's from Illinois, and I've heard rumors that there's a New Yorker in another dorm."

"Why would someone from New York come here?"

"Beats me. The weather?"

You snort, and the pair of you lapse into a comfortable silence.

"I came here to start over," he eventually says. The sudden noise startles you but you manage to not jump.

"I- Me too," you admit. He doesn't seem surprised by this, but begins examining you, his gaze intense and careful. You shrink back underneath it, nervous. What did he see?

He seems satisfied though, and he sits back. "I'm gay. It's why I'm here - Cridersville is great in many ways but tolerance isn't one of them." He seems vaguely expectant now; you sense that he's waiting for you to make a similar declaration.

"Oh, I'm not- I mean," you wince, and then you rush out, "I'm not gay."

He blinks, but composes himself quickly. "Oh. I mean, cool! I didn't- I- I shouldn't have assumed anything," he says.

You nod, but don't say anything else. There's a few minutes of silence but it's uncomfortable this time. Blaine is at his desk rearranging the stack of books and you can see the tension in his back.

"Uh," you find yourself saying, "So do you have any siblings?"

He turns and his grin is enormous. "Yeah. I have an older brother. He's an asshole."

Aaaah. Blissful, easy, common ground.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It's three days into your living situation that the first close call occurs. At Dalton, you're blessed with a private bathroom, which cuts the number of people that you have to avoid while naked from an entire dorm's worth of boys to just Blaine. Still, you feel like with just one person to watch out for, you should have lasted more than three days. You comfort yourself with the fact that it was a "close call" and not a "fuck fuck fuck fuck somebody fucking _knows._" So there's that, at least.

In hindsight, it wasn't nearly as close as it felt, but then, hindsight is 20/20, isn't it? There's a joke in there somewhere about how you wear contact lenses, but that's neither here nor there. This is how you nearly had a heart attack on your third day of term:

You're in the small bathroom that you and Blaine share and you're halfway through your evening shower when you realize that you've forgotten your clothing. You've been changing in the bathroom in order to avoid any unexplainable sights, but today, you left your clothes on your bed.

You freeze, hands still halfway through shampooing your hair (you still can't get used to how easy it is to wash short hair - Lucy took at least an hour to shampoo, rinse, dry, where Quinn takes just a few minutes) and assess your options. Option the first: hope Blaine isn't in the room when you leave the shower. Option the second: wrap your towel around your midriff covering what meager breasts you have and hope that Blaine doesn't ask why you wear your towel like a girl. Option the third: ask Blaine to bring you your clothing and chalk it up to some kind of social anxiety.

You hear Blaine humming from the other room, so option the first is out. He begins to sing and you cringe. Option the first is very out.

You and Blaine have been cordial but not friendly. You say hello when you pass by each other in the halls and you're comfortable asking him to keep his music down when you're trying to do homework just like he's fine with telling you to pick up your used towels off the floor. There's still some residual awkwardness floating around from your first conversation though, and occasionally you'll catch him looking at you with a strange combination of pain and longing in his eyes, as if he wants you to be somebody else. You know that look. In fact, you're very familiar with it. You rather hate it.

Unfortunately, you soon realize that not only do you not have your change of clothing, but you've left your _towel_ on your bed as well. You swear, loudly, and hear Blaine abruptly stop crooning Sinatra from the other room. Note to self: at some point in the future, if not because the two of you are the best of friends or some shit like that, for your own sanity alone, show the boy some music from the twenty-first century.

He's quiet now, though, and your hair is as clean as it's going to get, so you decide to just bite the bullet and go through with option the third. Let no one ever say that Quinn Fabray is a coward after this.

"Yo, Blaine?" you call out, "I think I left my towel and clothes on my bed. D'you mind tossing them in here for me?"

There's a shuffling sound from the other room before the bathroom door opens and Blaine's hand appears, holding the blessed cover that you need. The arm crooks, and he drops the bundle as close to the shower as he can and retreats. The door closes with a solid "click."

You grab the towel and quickly dry yourself off before pulling on a pair of thin black jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. You look at yourself critically in the mirror for a few seconds - your nipples are small enough that they shouldn't be a give away, at least, not while your shirt is on. Even the more oblivious (and after English 20, there is no doubt in your mind that the 'more oblivious' at Dalton are very much so) would notice that your areolae are decidedly not normal for a teenaged boy. Still, fully clothed, with a baggy shirt obfuscating your tiny hips, nobody who wasn't looking for something else would see anything but a (somewhat androgynous, but _still_) boy, slouching uncomfortably.

You leave the bathroom to be greeted by your (enormously angry) roommate.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he hisses as he slams a palm into the frame of the bathroom door. "I know why you're changing in the bathroom, why you refuse to be around me with so much as your shirt off."

There's a rushing in your ears, as if it isn't Blaine talking to you, but a lion roaring and you can feel the blood, _feel it_, escaping your face, fleeing to the ground.

"Yeah?" you ask, and god knows how you kept your voice that still.

He opens his mouth and you cringe, ready to hear the words that will mean the end of a school year nearly before it began, the words that are nothing more than a simple, painful reminder, that you are not who you think you are.

But they don't come.

What he says instead with teeth gritted and eyes full of hate (for himself? For you?) is "I said that I'm gay, not that I'm a sexual predator. You can change in front of me, I promise that I can control myself." He spits the last two words out like they're acid and then his face crumples like a stepped-on soda can.

Your mouth drops in surprise and your first two attempts to close it are met with failure. You're vaguely aware that you resemble some kind of exotic, human shaped fish, but you can't bring yourself to care all that much. "Uh," you manage, "Shit, Blaine, it's not that at all."

His face tenses and it's angry steel again when he asks, "So what is it then? Because all I know is I tell you I'm gay and then you avoid me like I'm some kind of- some kind of fucking monster under the bed!"

There's a part of you that wants to tell him, wants to spit at him exactly how mistaken he is. It's a tiny part, though, dwarfed by the entire rest of your brain that's screaming memories of just how close-minded people can be, screaming for you to lie, to protect yourself. What you manage is: "I- I used to get teased a lot before I came here." (True.) "I'm not really comfortable with my body." (Also true.) "I- I didn't mean to offend you, I didn't even think about that. Your being gay means nothing to me." (Also true, although since you still lack Blaine's preferred set of equipment his being gay is a non-issue anyway.) "I'm just not comfortable being naked around anyone."

His face softens and the incredulous wonder on his face makes you feel slightly guilty for lying. But really, only slightly. More than the guilt is the relief that he's (apparently) believed that negative body image and low self esteem is the entirety of the problem. "Really?" he asks, before realizing that he's grinning over the fact that his roommate admitted to having crippling body image due to a childhood of abuse. He hastily rearranges his face to something a little more somber before trying again. "Sorry, I- I mean, really? You're okay with me being gay?"

You nearly laugh - all things considered, Blaine's sexuality is low on your ladder of things to care about - but catch yourself and nod instead. "Trust me. It makes no difference to me who you go for."

He smiles sheepishly. "I should have just asked instead of assuming," he mumbles.

You roll your eyes. "Don't worry about it, man. People've assumed worse of me."

He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah. But we're not talking about it right now."

He shrugs. "Whatever you say." In a familiar gesture, he holds out his right hand. You look at it for a second before taking it in yours. His skin is as rough as you remember and his grip just as firm. "Friends?" he asks.

You can't help but smile at that. You haven't had a proper friend in a very long time. "Friends," you agree.

That night, as you lie under crimson blankets, you come to two realizations. The first is that, at some point, Blaine will become aware on his own that you weren't entirely honest today. The second is that you'll probably voluntarily tell him before that happens.

That night is your best sleep in months.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As it turns out, there are definite perks to being Blaine's friend. Obviously, there's the whole having-a-friend thing which you've found pretty awesome. He's also incredibly generous; it turns out that Dalton only requires uniforms while classes are in session which means that you are embarrassingly short of street clothes. Blaine, however, comes to the rescue, offering you full use of his (extensive) wardrobe. True, he has two inches on you and maybe three or four around the waist, but what are skinny capris on him end up fitting you quite well. Also, you feel petty for admitting it, but he's feminine enough that anyone who looks at the two of you would assume 1) that you two are dating and 2) that you are the more masculine of the pair which is a far sight better than the alternative.

You hate to make it sound like you're taking advantage of the poor boy's amiability but it's hard to see what he's getting out of the friendship. After all, you're introverted at best and at worst, you're clinically anti-social if left to your own devices. In fact, you're certain that were you not friends with Blaine, you'd have become a recluse at this point. Not that there's anything wrong with being introverted or anti-social - you've always considered yourself somewhat of a loner, after all, it's hard to miss something you've never had - but in terms of the give-and-take of friendship, from your end, it seems to be a lot more 'take'.

It doesn't seem to bother Blaine, though. He is seemingly undeterred by your inability to make small talk and your aversion to random physical contact. He is also under the impression that any friends of his ought to be friends of yours (and Blaine gets what he wants) which is how, two months later, you find yourself eating lunch with Wes and David. Surprisingly, perhaps, is that you find yourself eating lunch with Wes and David absolutely comfortably.

Wes is a few inches shorter than you, Asian, with a mischievous grin and what seems to be a pathological fixation on the opposite sex. David is black and surprisingly tall; from a distance, you assumed that he was no taller than Blaine when in reality he easily has four to five inches on the boy.

At the moment, Wes is, predictably enough, planning for the weekend: "... And so anyway, I hear there's this great party Saturday and I know that there'll be Crawford girls there." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at you and David before continuing, "There'll probably be enough people there that you can find somebody too, Blaine."

David groans. "Wes, man, don't you think about anything else? Or is it all just finding girls to make out with?"

"Sure, I do. I think about finding girls to get naked with, finding girls to-"

Wes is silenced by a french fry that has found its way from David's plate to his face. "Don't corrupt the freshmen."

Chastised, Wes picks the french fry up from his lap where it has fallen and pops it into his mouth. "But seriously guys," he continues, "You in or out? I know it's only Tuesday but I need to know now so that I can work on getting us all in."

You and Blaine exchange a look. Blaine rolls his eyes. Wes has brought up a similar party every single weekend since the four of you started to hang out and not once has anyone other than David taken him up on it. Of course, you've both had your reasons. No matter what Wes promises about the presence of other gay men, Blaine doesn't feel comfortable going out so publicly, well, out, just like you don't feel very comfortable going out at all.

Still, it'd be nice to get off campus for once, no matter that next Tuesday begins Thanksgiving Break. You're comfortable at Dalton and while comfortable is nice, it leaves your mind, once obsessed with secrecy and hiding, free to wander. After the adrenalin of paranoia, comfort is, well, boring.

"Sure, I'm in," you say, just as Blaine opens his mouth to decline.

"Well, if you're sure," Wes sighs. "Wait, what?"

You grin, happy to have taken the boy by surprise. "What, Wes, scared that I called your bluff?"

"Bluff nothing! Don't worry, Quinnocent, this is gonna be the best party ever. You coming, Blaine?"

He hesitates for a second before nodding his agreement.

That night as you're getting ready for bed, Blaine asks, "Why'd you say yes to Wes today?"

"It sounds like fun," you call out from the bathroom where you're putting on your pajamas. "Isn't going to one of these things, like, a quintessential high school experience or something?"

"Yeah, but-"

You cut him off. Blaine has a tendency to feel sorry for himself and you've learned to nip it in the bud. "Blaine, look. You don't have to come if you don't want to, just tell Wes something's come up. But you're not going to be the only gay guy at the party."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

You sigh. Blaine's sexuality isn't usually a touchy topic, but at times like this, it can make your roommate bullish and sullen.

"Well, we're going, which means that Dalton boys have been invited, right?"

You walk out of the bathroom then, in your basketball shorts and loose "ASU" T-Shirt and see that he's lying in bed, laughing. It was a joke, of course, but Dalton does have a reputation for a homosexual population well outside of the standard deviation for any high school.

"You have a point there, Quinn."

"Pfft. I'm always right. You'll learn that some day."

You crawl into bed and flick off the lights.

"Night, Quinnocent," he mocks.

"Oh, go to sleep Neil Patrick Harris."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

That saturday finds you unspeakably nervous for two reasons. The first and most obvious of course, is the risk inherent to going out among large groups of people in party-attire, the risk of being (outed doesn't sound like the right word, neither does discovered, or found out) noticed. But underneath that is the fact that this is your first high school party and you have no idea what to do, how to dress, what you're doing.

Blaine doesn't either and for that boy, the fact that he doesn't know what to wear is a miniature disaster. It's not Wes (whose advice sums up to "doesn't matter what you wear, if things go well, you'll take it all off anyway") but David who saves you in the end. He doesn't quite manage to convince Blaine that a bow-tie is not proper party attire, but once the two of you are dressed, you can't help but feel a rush of excitement as you examine yourself in the mirror. You're in a pair of Blaine's skinniest black jeans which manage to look slim on you, topped off by a grey v-neck and a black vest. You're wearing your normal grey All-Stars and as you look at your reflection, you're struck by how right, how masculine you look.

You're interrupted from your happy reverie by Wes' impatient voice calling out from the hall. "God, freshmen, it doesn't have to take so damn long to get ready! C'mon, we've gotta hurry up so I can pick up some drinks so that we can actually get in to the party."

The ride over in David's car is filled with Wes' excited chattering, tips on how best to approach a girl, on which kinds of drinks to avoid, on how to tell if a girl has a boyfriend that you should be watching out for. It's an hour and a half of empty talk and you find that it clears your head, calms you, somehow. You stop once at a small deli that apparently sells alcohol to minors and head to the party, vodka in tow.

The GPS beeps out that you're nearing your final destination and you realize with a start that you know where you are. The party, apparently, is being held in the suburbs outside of Lima; you think you've been around here once for a birthday party when you were much younger.

For some reason, you choose to remain silent about this fact.

The house that David pulls up in front of isn't what you expected. It's tiny, the kind of place that would comfortably fit a family of four, but definitely not the throng of teenagers that Wes promised. "Um," you say, "This is. Small. How many people are going to be at this party?"

David laughs, not unkindly. "We're only parking here, Quinn. Enough people are showing up that it's better to keep your car a little further from the action."

You nod, although you're not entirely sure what he means by that. David points down the street and you follow him, flanked by Wes and Blaine. Wes is wearing tan shorts and a red polo and is nearly vibrating with excitement. You snort; one would think he'd have gotten over that by now. Blaine, on the other hand, is decked out in blue-grey slacks held up by black suspenders, and a ghost-white dress shirt topped by the crimson bowtie that David hadn't been able to talk him out of.

It's not long before you arrive at what you're sure must be the party. It's not quite what you expected - the music isn't blasting out open windows and the lawn isn't covered with coupling high schoolers, but something is clearly going on inside. You feel the music before you hear it, a thumping beneath your feet, and you're immediately jealous of the house's speaker system.

Wes pushes the door open and the music pours out. The house is soundproofed, that much is obvious. Your guide quickly finds the kitchen and adds his offering to the veritable trove of alcohol on the island. He grabs a stack of cups and expertly pours the four of you a shot of rum before handing the drinks out. "Cheers," he says happily, "To an evening full of dancing and women. And men," he adds, glancing at Blaine.

David rolls his eyes, but holds up his cup anyway. "Cheers."

Blaine follows suit.

You don't want to drink. Well, actually, you do want to drink, you just don't want to be very drunk, drunk enough to, for example, let slip that you lived for fourteen years as a girl. And so after you raise your cup, tapping it against the others', you bring it to your lips but do not drink.

After downing his drink, Wes immediately pours himself another and heads towards the source of the noise, the living room, to mingle with the crowds. David follows after him, albeit sans the second drink, leaving you and Blaine in the kitchen. You're not alone - there are four other people there, but they're all otherwise occupied. You feel uncomfortable; with Wes and David gone, you two are the only ones not making out with each other.

You open your mouth to suggest that you head to the living room when Blaine's phone rings. He looks at it and groans, before waving you off to the dance floor. "No, go, I have to take this." You shrug and agree, heading off in the direction of the music.

Soon, you're surrounded by people and by an almost tangible swell of music. It's exhilarating. You're surrounded by people and the fact that they're brushing up against you, dancing next to you, on top of you, the fact that they're touching you, suddenly doesn't matter because you're not Quinn, or Lucy, but just a member of a crowd.

You're stunned for a moment, utterly frozen with the realization, until a particularly zealous dancer next to you knocks you over. He stops what he was doing and bends down to pick you up and you can't help but laugh - you were right. This boy is possibly the gayest thing that you've ever seen - he's wearing black sequined pants and a t-shirt with Lady Gaga's face emblazoned on it. He's also giving you more than a quick once-over.

"I haven't seen you around here before," he says. His voice is high, breathy, and you can't help but feel that were you to take your turn at the karaoke machine that you've heard is downstairs, he'd be much higher than you.

"Yeah, I, uh, I go to Dalton," you reply.

His eyes go a little wide at this. "Oh, I wanted to go, I've heard _such_ good things about the No Bullying policies, but it was just too expensive." He grinned, as if he'd just thought of something brilliant. "My name's Kurt. Why don't we go somewhere else so that you can tell me all about it?"

You give him a weak smile before saying, "Uh, sorry, but I'm not- I'm not gay."

He looks absolutely crestfallen but he lets you go without another word.

You dance on your own for a couple of minutes before you spot Blaine walking back inside. Conservatively, he doesn't look too happy. Realistically, he looks like he's about a step away from homicide; you've never seen him this angry before, not even when he was convinced you thought he was out to molest you. It's no small act of courage, then, when you make your way to his side and pull him into one of the bedrooms so that you don't have to yell over the crowd. "What's up?" you ask, once the door is closed.

He's scowling at his phone like it personally wronged him. "My fucking brother," he hisses out through gritted teeth.

Oh, right. You remember talking briefly about said brother during that first conversation you had, but other than his name and the fact that he's an "enormous prick," you didn't retain much. "What'd Cooper do this time?"

"He's taking my parents to California for Thanksgiving."

You blink. "Oh. But isn't that a good thing?"

"He didn't buy me a ticket."

You're not really sure how to respond to that, other than, "Dude, what an asshole."

Blaine chuckles weakly. "You're telling me. Fuck. What am I going to do for break, now? I can't stay at Dalton."

You don't even think about it before offering, "You can stay with me. My parents won't mind."

He stops mid-rant and looks at you hopefully. "Really? You mean it?"

You grin, thinking of how Frannie would respond to Blaine. "Of course. My parents have been after me to bring a friend home for years."

He hugs you and the action takes you so by surprise that you don't even try to move away. You freeze for a second in his embrace before awkwardly putting your arms around his back.

The pair of you stay like that for a little under two seconds before the door bursts open and a pair of girls, locked in an embrace far more intimate than yours and Blaine's, stumbles in. The blonde trips over Blaine's back and the pair fall to the floor. "Oops," she says, "I didn't know this room was occupied."

The latina pulls her lover to her feet and gives you and Blaine a once-over. She grins and shoots you a wink, before saying, "Sorry 'bout that. Britts and I'll get out of your hair." Giggling, they left the room and a very shellshocked pair of boys behind.

You and Blaine turn to stare at each other and uniformly flush Dalton crimson. "Well," he stutters, "We should probably get out of here, then?"

You nod. "Yeah. Hey, I got good news for you, though."

"Yeah?"

You grin. "I can verify that you are not the only gay person here."

He looks at you for a second before punching you lightly on the shoulder. "Oh, shut up."

You laugh, before sobering. "No, but seriously. There's a guy here, Kurt, I think. He's pretty good looking, I guess. He was hitting on me before you came back in."

Blaine does that thing with his face where he tries to pretend that he's not interested but, as always, the eyebrow twitch does him in and he knows it. "Yeah? D'you want to introduce us?"


End file.
